


Failed Attempt

by MysticPuma



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Friendship or Romance, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Specified Gender, POV First Person, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticPuma/pseuds/MysticPuma
Summary: It's a stupid idea... But it's all I have left.





	Failed Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> As you probably saw in the tags, this fanfic comes with a big ol' trigger warning for Suicidal Thoughts etc. so discretion is advised.  
> I have tagged this as Dead By Daylight as well as Halloween because not only is Myers in DBD, but I would never have watched the Halloween films if not for said game.

I know there are people that would tell me how stupid what I’m doing is. There are people that are going to miss me if something happens, but that’s exactly why I’m doing this; because I don’t have the courage to do anything else.

I’m stood in front of the Myers House, the wind howling in my ears as I hear the distant laughter of children as they gather candy in little plastic pumpkins. Some brave soul even put a jack-o-lantern on the porch banister. They didn’t go inside though. They didn’t have a death-wish.

I push open the door, knowing that I should find the way it creaks unnerving. Instead, I feel nothing. My footsteps echo as I enter, and I do not try to muffle the sound of them, nor the sound of the door closing. A peaceful silence surrounds me and I begin to explore the house, keenly aware of each breath of stale air I take. The furniture is long gone and dust bunnies have gathered in the corners. Disappointment begins to seep into my mind as the silence slowly deafens me, the sounds of my own body not enough to break the spell.

Ascending the stairs I keep my hand off the railing, unwilling to disturb the layer of dust that has settled on it over the years. Like downstairs, the furniture is gone. All except for a single bed and side table. I frown slightly. They don’t look new, but nor do they seem as old as the rest of the place. I ignore it, sitting myself down with a long sigh. What did I think was going to happen? I’d open the door and get a knife to the chest? Granted murders kept happening around Halloween, but it’s been years since Michael Myers supposedly died. Some small part of me had hoped… And now that my idea has been destroyed, I feel tears begin to leak from my eyes as despair sets in.

I lie down on my side, my arms wrapped around myself as I begin to shake with sobs. This was supposed to end the pain… but instead I’m just lying on a dusty little bed crying. I feel pathetic. Worthless. I cry myself into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

 

  
I am first aware of goosebumps on my exposed arms. Why didn’t I put on a jacket? The next thing I’m aware of though is that my own breathing is not all I can hear. My breaths are soft and quick, but I can hear heavy, slow breaths that seem amplified by something. I open my eyes, ignoring the pain caused by the crusted tears. I rub the crystals away and begin to register that there is someone stood in the doorway before me. Dark blue clad legs travel down to large boots, besides which a small pool of liquid has formed. Another droplet adds to it and I follow its origin to a bloodied kitchen knife. My mouth feels strangely dry. Maybe I’m dreaming? No… it feels too real, and as far as I can remember I’ve never been able to become aware when dreaming. So this is real. Cool.

  
My gaze travels up to find the face of my visitor, and I’m not surprised when instead I see an expressionless white mask. It is dark, so the holes that should allow me to see my companion’s eyes are just black voids. I push myself into a sitting position and take in the tall, foreboding figure. He certainly matches the descriptions… I tilt my head curiously, trying to discern whether he’s real or just some hallucination, or worse a teenager dressing up… He just tilts his head in response.

“So… Hi.” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, it just sort of happens when I cry a lot.” I offer it as a sort of explanation, since he seems confused to have found someone sleeping in here. That, I think, is fair. He tilts his head the other way. “Right… Yeah, that doesn’t explain why I’m here, does it? Well… I was looking for you.” His head straightens. “That is if you’re not some kid dressed up… That’d kinda suck.” He stares at me, or at least I think he does… I still can’t see his eyes. “The blood on your knife looks pretty real though… Can I look?” I point at the knife for emphasis, and he looks down at it before tightening his grip. “Okay, that’s a no then.” He’s looking at me again. Okay, no kid is this quiet for this long… I think it’s the real deal. “So… I’m kind of surprised I woke up at all. Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

He steps forward, and for a moment I think (read: hope) he’s going to just stab me, but he bends down and brings his face up close to mine, keeping only about half an inch between us. I look to the sides, confused.

“Um… What are you doing?” He doesn’t reply. Why would he? I wonder absently when and why he went mute… Or if he ever spoke a word. Perhaps he never spoke as a child? I shake my head to focus my thoughts, and he moves away, startled by the sudden movement. “Sorry, my mind was wandering.” I smile sheepishly and he tilts his head. Is that a tick? Then again, without words to aid him, I suppose body language is all he has. I shake again. Focus, dammit. He tilts his head further. I think I’ve managed to make a serial killer concerned about my mental health. “Yeah, I’m a bit scatter-brained…” My sheepish smile returns.

Suddenly, I realise something. “Wait, is this your bed?” I point beneath me for emphasis, and after recovering from the whiplash caused by my sudden change of subject, Michael nods slowly. “Sorry! You must be tired after a night of killing.” I stand and shuffle to the side, indicating to the bed. The mask follows my movements and he keeps his hidden gaze trained on me even as he moves to the bed and slowly seats himself, placing the knife on the nightstand. Now that I look at it, the middle of the top is far darker than the rest of the wood, so it must be stained by dried blood. “So, you’re not going to kill me?” I can’t quite hide the disappointment, not that I’m sure why I try.

I think he picks up on the tone in my voice, because he tilts his head again, and at this angle I can now see his eyes. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, his shadowed eyes childlike in wonder. It’s clear he’s never been faced with someone that wants him to kill them… Duh, why the hell would he have?

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” It can’t hurt, and it’s not like I’m afraid. I came here with every intention of being killed, so I might as well take the risk of being friendly with him. He looks down at the sppt next to him for a moment, then shrugs. Good enough. I plop down next to him, noting that this fresh piece of bedding is cool. “You’re confused. I get that. Not everyday you come across someone who doesn’t seem to mind dying, right?” I look at him and smile sadly. “Have you ever just wanted to… stop existing?” He blinks, then nods. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m too scared to do it myself though. Well, not scared… I guess I’d just feel… guilty. My family would blame themselves and, you know… It’s just kind of a mess.” I laugh nervously, realising that I’m talking to Michael freaking Myers about my feelings. “So that’s why I’m not afraid. If you kill me, I’ll have accomplished my goal for coming here.” I offer him a crooked smile.

A long moment of silence stretches between us, but as I’m about to look back at the floor, I notice his hand moving towards my face. He places a single finger on my forehead, and I don’t know if I’m crazy or actually beginning to understand him, but I know what he’s asking. “Yeah, my brain’s kinda messed up. Some bullshit about imbalanced chemicals.” He removes his finger from my forehead and places it on his own. “Yeah… I guess we’re similar in that regard, aren’t we?” He nods. “I don’t go around stabbing people for fun though.” I point out wryly and while I can’t see his mouth, I notice his eyes move minutely. I think I just managed to make him smile. Before I can notice, his hand has moved again, this time to rest atop my head. I look up at it briefly then back into his eyes.

Did I just… make friends with a mute serial killer? Sweet.

I smile again, but it is replaced by a shocked expression when Michael’s hands grip my waist and lift me slightly. I try not to yelp in surprise, thankful that I adjust to the feeling quickly. God his hands are big… He stands, still holding onto me, and my feet hover a few inches from the floor. I keep my gaze locked with his, silently communicating my confusion. He then sets me down on the far side of the bed and lets go of me so he can lie down. Once he is comfortable, he reaches up and pulls me down beside him, or more… on top of him. One hand holds onto my head and pulls it gently to his chest, while the other settles on the small of my back.

I blink a couple of times, reminding myself that yes, I am now being hugged by Michael Myers, before I relax into the beast of a man, letting his steady heartbeat lull me to sleep in his arms, feeling more at peace than I have in years.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this on a day that I was feeling particularly suicidal myself, and it helped me get through it, so I was pleasantly surprised by how uplifting/comedic it is. I'd love feedback. :)


End file.
